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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26292337">Dispossessed</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janekfan/pseuds/Janekfan'>Janekfan</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Embarrassment, False Accusations, Flashbacks, Food Scarcity, Gen, Non-Consensual Touching, Panic Attacks, Shame, Shoving, Starvation, Trauma, homeless, pinning, pushing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:48:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,775</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26292337</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janekfan/pseuds/Janekfan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After being rescued from the Circus, Jon realizes he's got nothing left.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood &amp; Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>338</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Dispossessed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26193919">A Place for the Night</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/voiceless_terror/pseuds/voiceless_terror">voiceless_terror</a>.
        </li>

    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Curled up in his chair and safely ensconced in his office, Jon shivered intermittently with cold after his confrontation with Elias following his narrow escape, release? from the Circus, numb and empty. Thank god he’d had a change of clothes in here because after all his last set had seen they were better off burned, and he’d changed into them after scrubbing his skin raw with the hottest water he could stand out of the tap. Standing there. Staring at his reflection in the glass. </p>
<p>They hung from his frame, easily two sizes large, and He’d practically run from the restroom to hide, ashamed and embarrassed and overwhelmed. </p>
<p>His stomach hurt and he wrapped his arms around the gnawing void behind his ribs, begging the pressure for relief. The last time he’d eaten...well he couldn’t remember the last time, days blurred together there, the passing of time marked in his useless struggles against the <i>hands</i>, hands everywhere and touching, touching, touching him.</p>
<p>He’d lost his flat, his things, his wallet, parts of himself. All lost. All taken.</p>
<p>Like he had been taken. </p>
<p>And no one noticed. </p>
<p>No one had <i>cared</i> and he wasn’t surprised because he knew how they felt about him, he knew, he did, he just didn’t expect it to cut so deeply. </p>
<p>Leaving this small bit of sanctuary was out of the question and Jon was too exhausted to do anything else today, so he did what he did in his captivity when things became too much and forced himself to sleep.</p>
<p>When he woke up there was a cup of tea cooling on his desk and a jumper draped over him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He’d gone through his desk twice, the first time for a protein bar he knew was in there and ate in small, controlled bites, and the second because he hoped for another. He couldn’t live like this. Not without cash or a way to eat and he wasn’t crawling back to Elias to ask for any favors. But just a few more days and he’d have a replacement ID and a few more after that he could access his bank account . </p>
<p>Until then he’d have to make do. </p>
<p>In the evenings he ventured outside with his knapsack, almost daring the Circus to grab him again, wondering if this time, Micheal would just kill him and be done with it. He just walked. Mostly aimless, placing what spare bottles he found in his bag so he could return them for their deposit. With his secrets close and kept, Jon tried not to think of the new lows he’d sunk to as he dipped chocolate digestives from the vending machine into Martin’s tea and lost himself in statement after statement, the static in the background like a laundry line where he hung the rest of fears and insecurities and let himself <i>go</i>. </p>
<p>But Jon didn’t feel well. Shaky and tired, counting the seconds until he had access to his funds again and feeling more and more like he wouldn’t be able to make it off a quid’s worth of biscuits and tea. He scrubbed a trembling palm down his face, massaging his temples and willing the persistent headache to stop its pounding. He dug his fingers into his hollow stomach, twisting up the fabric there and holding it so tight they ached with the strain. </p>
<p>It affected his judgement. Not that many would say he had much of that to begin with. </p>
<p>He was being pulled too thin. </p>
<p>And suddenly it was all he could think about. A box in one of the cupboards, shoved towards the back. He remembered seeing them before he was taken. Long before. So maybe they didn’t belong to anyone. Just some old cream crackers. Just anything to avoid begging Martin because that’s where his mind went next. He’d been so cruel to him, he couldn’t take advantage like that. He wouldn’t. He slipped out of his chair, grabbing the edge of the desk almost desperately when his vision swam and the office tipped violently to the side. Clammy, his hand flew to his forehead as though he could press the equilibrium back in. </p>
<p>On silent feet he crept to the dark break room, thankfully avoiding anybody and making it there without much trouble. Leaning up on his tiptoes he just managed to coax his prize off the shelf with the tips of his fingers, catching it against his chest when it fell. There was dust on the box. And yet he was riddled with shame and guilt as he pulled out a half package.</p>
<p>Just as the lights flicked on. </p>
<p>And Tim and Melanie caught him.</p>
<p>“<i>Boss</i>.” Like a curse and Jon winced, clutching the package, shrinking under his flinty stare. “Haven’t seen you in days.” </p>
<p>“What are you skulking around in the dark for?” She laughed and it was a mean thing that twisted around his heart like barbed wire. “What are you doing?” </p>
<p>“N’nothing.” He tilted his chin up, willing his flight response to quit it because he was <i>safe</i> here even if they didn’t like him. </p>
<p>“Looks like you’re stealing, boss.” Tim tore the package from his grip.</p>
<p>“No! I wouldn’t, th’they--”</p>
<p>“They’re what? Out of words now?” Tim crushed them, threw them at the floor. “<i>Boss</i>?” </p>
<p>“I can expla--” When he shoved him, Jon’s mind blanked, transported very suddenly back to Nikola’s jeering, cheerful, awful voice and wandering hands and--</p>
<p>“Not enough you got Sasha killed?” </p>
<p>“S’stop.” Barely a breath, he didn’t have anything else. </p>
<p>“Not enough you trapped us here?” </p>
<p>“Stop.” </p>
<p>“Not enough to snare Melanie?” </p>
<p>“P’p’please.” </p>
<p>“You have to steal? And take? More??” Each increasingly loud demand for answers accompanied with another push until he was pinned by his shoulders and still Jon couldn’t speak louder than a whisper when he asked, "how long before you take the rest of us?" </p>
<p>“Stop.”</p>
<p>“I won’t.” His face was inches from his own, and so angry. “Not until you tell us the truth.”</p>
<p>
  <i>Stop stop stop</i>
</p>
<p>“Tell us, Jon.” </p>
<p>“Stop, stop, please, stop, stop touching me, please, please…” He wasn’t upright under his own power, the hands on him had him trapped against the wall and he couldn’t breathe with them on him, couldn’t think, couldn’t answer their questions because he didn’t have answers and didn’t understand the words because he was in the tunnels again and the echo made it impossible to hear and they kept <i>touching</i>-- </p>
<p>“Tim!” It was like a gunshot and Jon recoiled like he’d been the one to fire it, sliding down the wall when the hands released him as if burned, all sharp angles and days old clothes and suddenly it was Tim’s face above him again, horrified, before it disappeared and the room fell quiet. </p>
<p>“Jon?” </p>
<p>Martin.</p>
<p>“S’sorry.” The weight of his pathetic incompetence pressed down on him like a stone, crushing the air out of his body and there was none left in the room for him to take. “Sorry, m’sorry, m'sorry.” The pulse hammering through his blood hurt like a bruise bone deep, left him dizzy, and he couldn’t, there was no <i>air</i> here.</p>
<p>“I know, I know you are.” Martin. Martin. Martin should hate him along with the rest. Why, why. Why was he here? Why was he so, so, so very kind? “You need to breathe, Jon, or you’re going to pass out.” Didn’t he understand? There wasn’t anything left to breathe? All gone, nothing left but crumbling paper and fading ink and the dust would cover everything, including him until he didn’t <i>need</i> to breathe. </p>
<p>“Martin.” Gasping, breathless, choking on dust, dust, dust, the damp on his face trickling through it carving paths like desert rain. </p>
<p>“I’m here.” Jon realized he’d been looking up where Tim’s face had been this whole time, finally dropped his gaze to see Martin, brows knit with worry. Worry. He didn’t deserve that. Not after the ruin he caused. The people he’d killed. “I’m not going anywhere.” Narrow chest heaving in shallow, short attempts, Jon let his head fall into the corner between wall and cupboard, curling there, small and safe on all sides, because Martin was here and Martin was staying even though he shouldn’t. </p>
<p>“Martin.” At some point his eyes closed while listening to him ramble about inconsequential things and the different dogs he saw around his flat though he didn’t know their names and wanted to. </p>
<p>“I’m still here.” At least one of them was. Jon felt disconnected, loose, and forced his lashes apart like he was moving mountains. Now that he was no longer panicking the ache in his stomach was back. “Jon?”</p>
<p>“Mm.” Martin was sitting against the cupboards too. Wasting his time here with him. Keeping a measured distance between them as if he knew the kind of tentative control Jon was managing. </p>
<p>“Why don’t you go home?” </p>
<p>“Don’ have one.” Jon hugged himself closer, unmoored without a place to return to. </p>
<p>“Why were you in here?” In here stealing. </p>
<p>“Jus’ <i>hungry</i>.” And the pangs were very real and he was so lightheaded. </p>
<p>“Oh, Jon.” </p>
<p>“M’sorry.” He ducked his face, hiding behind folded arms. “Didn’t. I d’didn’t realize. Thought.” He shuddered, hot with embarrassment and shame. “Didn’t mean to steal.” </p>
<p>“Is that what Tim was yelling about?” Miserable, Jon shook his head, the tears dripping into his oversized jumper. </p>
<p>“No, he's. Angry.” Martin sighed, heavy and tired, and Jon’s throat closed up around his sorrow. “I understand.” </p>
<p>“Well. Jon, you weren’t stealing.” Why was he kind after everything he’d done to him? After how poorly he’d treated him? “They were probably very stale considering they’ve been there since. I think since before I started.” Caught off guard, Jon laughed a bit, face still in his knees, until it turned to crying. Loud and ugly and foolish and shameful, and oh if only his grandmother could see him now when her presumptions and predictions came true as he failed every person who'd dared allow him close. But Martin let him sob himself dry, until he was left with an aching head and the kind of tired that only happens after a cry like that. “I’m inviting you to dinner.” His head snapped up so fast he dashed it on the wall. </p>
<p>“No, n’no, I.”</p>
<p>“Am coming with me.” His tone brooked no argument. "Would be rude to refuse my invitation, you know."</p>
<p>“Martin--”</p>
<p>“We can give those clothes a wash.” He went on, ignoring Jon’s stammering. “I’ve got other things too, you can have, while you’re living here.” Again, the tears welled up, spilling over, and this time Martin held out his arms. And this time, Jon was ready.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have an obsession with Jon not eating/taking care of himself physically and then starving from lack of statements. Like, this is a guy who grew up in a house with not enough food in my humble opinion.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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